This, in fact, was the effect of a fourth-level Armor of Agathys.
After receiving his Supernatural Gift, Charles had come up with a plan—dretch were small, weak, and their claws weren't magical weapons. Even if they did manage to scratch him, the Earth Dragon blessing would block almost everything; they could barely hurt him at all.
But Armor of Agathys would still trigger, freezing each one almost to death on contact.
He realized, thanks to this spell's reactive power, he could basically stand still and let wave after wave of dretch kill themselves on his magic—barely lifting a finger.
Unless a stronger fiend came in swinging and shattered the spell, he could, in theory, keep counter-killing like this indefinitely.
That was the strategy. Maybe not much good against real heavy hitters, but for mowing down lesser minions, it was brilliant: not as dramatic as slamming Fireballs around, maybe, but you got hours of retaliation for one cast, and the cost was dirt cheap!
In this situation, being mobbed actually maximized his "damage output."
So Charles stood there in the dretch ocean, letting their attacks bounce off his magic and retaliate—cleaning house, then finishing off stragglers with a purifying sword strike, all while racking up his Purification Points.
He was like a lone reef in a raging sea—no matter how the Demons crashed against him, he never wavered.
Across the battlefield, Mountain People, hobgoblin mercenaries, and Blackstaff Tower's new soldiers all watched in awe.
But that awe quickly became wild hope. With such a powerful spellcaster on their side, wouldn't their chances of evacuating and living through this nightmare be that much better?
Watching Charles's heroic stand, Ilarode's eyes filled with emotion. In that instant, she finally understood why her daughter had made her choice.
Torun and Danche, by contrast, felt rather complicated—since their last meeting, Charles seemed to have gotten even stronger.
Only Luger, now in his Giant Bear form, noticed Charles's specialized defense, glanced at his fellow animal-form colleagues, and suddenly broke into a pleased grin.
Ha! So it wasn't me being weak—looks like even you guys couldn't take him down!
With his spirits lifted, his own attacks grew even fiercer.
Everyone on the field had their own thoughts, but the fight surged on. Carol holstered her Ion Beam Emitter and led her sisters off the front line—taking even the Life Pastors who were out of mana—to organize the evacuation and hurry the women and children to the dwarves' mines before the Demons could entirely encircle them.
At that instant, the Mountain People—who'd been terrified of freezing to death just a day earlier—suddenly weren't afraid of migrating at all. They hustled right out after the nuns, some not even stopping to pack, just grabbing whatever food or clothing they could for the journey.
The map said it was only a hundred miles to the nearest dwarven mine. It was mountain road, but the Mountain People were used to such terrain. If they marched hard, they could reach safety by midnight.
That was the plan—but time waits for no one.
Or, to be exact, the Demons weren't about to give them that much evacuation time.
Suddenly, the warriors still fighting on the field felt their hearts seize. Reflexively, they glanced up—and saw, on the mountainside, a monstrous Demon: upper body massive and covered in tentacles dangling from his chin, lower body as thick and heavy as a hippo, with a pair of dragon wings on his back.
Montport had arrived!
The sight of that hulking form made Charles's heart skip, his scalp prickling with dread.
Because, standing behind Montport, even larger shapes emerged—like miniature mountains, slowly stomping onto the field.
Goristro!
Fiends as terrifyingly strong as Theresa herself!
And—
There were four of them.
In that moment, the balance of power was shattered. Even without Montport, just those four goristro joining the fray would spell their utter defeat.
How could anyone hope to stop a charge from four monsters like those? This was going to be a massacre.
Despair gnawed at Charles. He nearly decided to just cut and run, hauling Anno and the nuns out and letting the others fend for themselves.
But then, behind him, Anno suddenly shouted, "Reinforcements are here!"
Charles jerked his head up—and on the eastern horizon, he saw them: proud, beautiful griffons, wings flashing, flying towards the battlefield.
The dwarves' Griffon Knights!
And this time…
There must be over a thousand of them—the entire dwarven force?
Charles couldn't be sure, but seconds later, the Griffon Knights' second lieutenant boomed out in magically amplified voice, echoing across the valley: "Warriors, hold the line! Don't be afraid! The dwarves are here to assist!"
As his words fell, Storm Warhammers rained down from griffon-back like a deadly meteor shower, crashing onto the goristros' backs.
"Raaaawwwr!"
Thunder and lightning exploded across the giant fiends, sending them howling in pain. Even with their colossal bodies and thick hides, how could they withstand the impact of dozens of Storm Warhammers at once?
Their arrogance was crushed before it had time to flare.
As the dwarves' most elite force, the Griffon Knights hit the field and immediately put the demons under deadly pressure.
Still, this was nearly one hundred thousand Demons—most weak dretch, but easily enough to field their own flying corps.
A vulture-like horn blasted out. In response, hundreds of huge vrocks took to the sky, wings pounding as they soared straight for the Griffon Knights.
With them came monstrous mosquitoes—the size of bulls, with razor-sharp proboscises—buzzing like sawblades as they targeted the knights overhead.
It was an aerial dogfight. The disciplined Griffon Knights still had the advantage, but so long as the fiends remained in the air, air support for the ground would be limited.
Montport's cruel mouth curled in a sneer. He looked down at the defenders, ready to enjoy the slaughter ahead.
Then—suddenly—a flash of icy blue-white light sliced through the air. "Let me make this quick for you!"
The next instant, a massive scythe burning with violet magic swept out, blades howling for blood—it slashed straight for Montport's neck!
For all his might, Montport felt cold fear grip him. Instinctively, he reared up on thick back legs and swung his polearm up to intercept—just in time.
Clang—!
The deadly slash was blocked, but not completely; his chest plate was ripped open, exposing raw, muscled flesh beneath.
And the attacker landed from above—a burly, six-foot-four man in a black bodysuit striped with blood red, an enormous scythe across his back.
This was no stranger, but the ace of the special squad sent to hunt Montport—their Blade, Shapiro!
And this was just the beginning. Silver-white magic shimmered, and more than thirty others—eight core members, and over twenty support—teleported in beside him, launching an all-out assault!
"Support squad! Spread out—watch for stray demons!"
In the middle, the mature half-elven redemption paladin called out, barking orders to her team: "Shapiro, get back! We'll hold off Montport—you plan your next attack!"
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